Of Monkeys, Spirituality, and Group Travel Alchemy

I landed in Kathmandu on the morning of 20th April, disembarking from what can only be described as a budgetary experiment in human endurance: Air Arabia. No food, no drink, and not even the faintest hint of in-flight entertainment for a 20+ hour odyssey that took me from Dublin to Orio al Serio, then onward to the glowing glass limbo of Sharjah, before finally crash-landing into the humid, fragrant chaos of Nepal. Air Arabia would be in the ninth circle if Dante had written a canto for low-cost airlines.

Arrival and First Impressions

Outside the airport, a local rep from our ground partner Amresh greets us and guides us to a glorious 24-seater bus — our chariot, refuge, and occasional sauna for the next two weeks. By 9:35 AM, we arrive at the Mandala Boutique Hotel, an oasis tucked at the edge of Thamel — Kathmandu’s answer to Marrakesh’s souk, if Marrakesh had more trekking poles and hemp trousers. The hotel is charming, unpretentious, and improbably quiet given the chaos of the neighbourhood.

My room in Kathmandu is on the fourth floor. In Nepal, lifts seem to be regarded with the same mystical suspicion one reserves for UFO sightings or perfectly ripe avocados—they are spoken of, perhaps, but never actually encountered. And so, the real trekking doesn’t start on the Annapurna Circuit, but rather somewhere between the lobby and wherever your room is. Which, by immutable cosmic law, will always be on the top floor of a building constructed before the invention of mercy. I now climb to bed each night like a Victorian chimney sweep: wheezing, regretting life choices, and carrying a bottle of water like it’s a relic from some forgotten pilgrimage. In Nepal, altitude sickness begins in your guesthouse.

We choose our roommates for the trip. Mine looks like a decadent musician from a tribute band — turns out, he’s a bizarre and fun lawyer from Genoa. He’ll become a good friend.

Coffee, Culture, and Swayambhunath

The group congregates in the lobby. But before diving into cultural immersion, we enact a sacred rite of urban explorers everywhere: we stop for coffee. A local café 100 meters from the hotel delivers espresso and European-style foam. Sanity restored.

Our local guide Raji soon joins us — articulate, calm, and absurdly patient. Our first visit is to the base of the 320-step climb to Swayambhunath, the famed Monkey Temple. A warm-up, they said. Pre-trek training. What they failed to mention was the heat. Brutal. Unrelenting. Coming from Dublin’s perma-cloud, it felt like being plunged into a sauna in a parka. I left Italy for this?

At the summit, though, the suffering dissolves. The stupa gleams like a cosmic crown. Swayambhunath is not just a temple – it’s a metaphysical switchboard, sacred to the Newar Buddhists since 460 A.D. Monkeys swing above us like mischievous deities, and prayer flags snap like whispered intentions. We browse Tibetan singing bowls in a shop run by a master craftsman who could sell nirvana to a nihilist.

Durbar Square and Spiritual Layers

Descending from another side of the hill, we reboard our bus and head to Durbar Square — one of three in the valley (alongside Bhaktapur and Patan). It’s a mosaic of royal courtyards, pagoda roofs, and UNESCO-certified serenity. We have lunch on a rooftop overlooking the square, where I take my first culinary plunge into Nepalese food: momos (little dumpling grenades) and local chicken with rice.

Let’s be honest though: I’ve never loved Indian food. Nepali cuisine, while milder, still carries the spicy DNA. This won’t be a gourmet adventure for me. I can already feel myself eyeing a pizza on the horizon.

The Living Goddess and an Evening Misstep

Later, we explore the Old Royal Palace, then make our way to Pagoda Square and finally arrive at the window of the Kumari — Nepal’s living goddess. Chosen from the Sakya caste (same as the Buddha), she’s worshipped until puberty, then returned to civilian life. It’s sacred and surreal. And yes — observed through a thousand smartphones.

Back at the hotel for a shower and a failed nap, we head out for dinner at Mitho, just a 3-minute walk away. In a moment of caloric madness, I order a calzone. What arrives is pale, limp, and stuffed with unidentifiable vegetables. Culinary Error #1. There will be more.

Group Alchemy

At the restaurant, we meet another Avventure nel Mondo group—mostly women, mostly solo travelers. Ours is mostly couples and oddly male-heavy. The social fusion is inevitable. Jokes, group photos, and spontaneous bonding ensue. It’s a reminder that travel is better when shared, or at least when missteps can be collectively laughed at.

Though this is only my second trip with a tour operator, I’m already seeing the appeal of Avventure nel Mondo. Their approach is loose but guided, independent yet connected—a formula that suits my restless traveller’s soul. I’ve spent a lifetime exploring over 70 countries on my own, but I never travelled with a tour operator—partly out of principle, partly out of a vague, half-formed fear of matching lanyards and rigid itineraries that treat spontaneity like a communicable disease. But surprisingly, I didn’t hate it. I might have even liked it. I suspect this is mainly because I lucked into two coordinators who combined the commanding presence of military officers with the Zen monks’ serene, unflappable patience. Somehow, the group photo didn’t feel like a small soul-death under their watch. So yeah. Maybe I was wrong. Or perhaps I just got very, very lucky.

As an Italian living in Ireland, travelling with fellow Italians is more than just logistical convenience. It felt like a kind of reconciliation. My relationship with the motherland has always been a bit… fractious—a mix of affection, sarcasm, and the occasional escape plan. But spending two weeks with people I hadn’t met before, all Italian, all willingly signed up for an intense adventure like this, allowed me to revisit those roots with fewer prejudices.

Because let’s face it: the kind of Italian who signs up for a two-week trekking trip in Nepal isn’t precisely the stereotype you flee from at summer airports. These are curious people who show up, put in the effort, and embrace the unfamiliar. And—spoiler alert—they turned out to be decent human beings. Our coordinator, Alessio, especially manages to be calm, clear-headed, and quietly empathetic without ever veering into camp counsellor territory.

This wasn’t just a group—it was a mirror. A gentler, more forgiving way to see myself and where I come from. Maybe I didn’t need to sever ties with my origins to grow, maybe I just needed better company. Turns out that company came in the form of people who speak with their hands, complain about coffee quality, and still help you carry your backpack when the heat hits absurdity levels.

Closing Thoughts

Despite the heat (have I mentioned the heat?), the sad calzone, and Air Arabia’s feudal-era flight experience, Nepal already feels like a place that reveals more than it promises.

The journey has begun.

🗓️ Coming up next: Temples, treks, and probably pizza.